Torn Apart (Book 2): Dead Texas Roads

by Hoaks, C. A.

  When a middle-aged man tried to protest, Phil pointed at the gate, and the man quietly accepted the bedding and army cot Phil had pulled from a storage closet. His wife and two teen sons held out their arms for their bedding and quietly set up cots in the corner next to him. The woman sat down on the bedding and stared into the distance.

  Ben and Jason set up cinder blocks, and one by eight-inch boards to make shelving around the sides and back walls then used half a dozen plastic tarps over ropes to create privacy enclosures for each family. By the time everyone was assigned sleeping spaces and fed an evening meal, they were more than ready for bed.

  Phil rolled around the yard at dusk and ended his stroll by advising his guests to turn down the lamps in the garage. “You keep the lights as low as possible.”

  One of the men opened his mouth to protest, but Phil raised his hand. “What’s your name?”

  The man answered, “Stewart Ellis.”

  “Well, Stewart, this is my place as I pointed out earlier. We’re sitting on a hill, and I don’t want to advertise our location. Soon enough, there’ll be people looking to take what we accumulate here. Without all the light pollution, a single burning candle or lamp will be visible for quite a distance. Do we understand each other now?”

  Stewart nodded and returned to his small cubicle, and the lamp was turned down.

  The next morning Tate rolled off the couch at the first gurgle of the coffee maker. She got in and out of the bathroom right after Emma and ahead of the men. The older couple, Iris and Roger Spencer, had volunteered to cook for the co-op group out in the garage, so Emma and her sisters were only cooking for the family household.

  Tate picked up a cup of coffee. “You know, Doyle and I could have slept on cots outside with Roger’s group.”

  “Nonsense, you and Doyle are family now. You rescued Ben, then put yourselves in danger to come after the rest of us.”

  Ben’s mother, Janice, nodded quickly and added, “You saved my son. Bill and I will never be able to do enough to repay you.”

  Tate reddened at the praise, so she quickly changed the subject. “It’s hard to imagine you walked all that way. That’s a pretty long trek for the kids.”

  Emma sighed. “For a while, I didn’t think we would make it. We had to take turns carrying the little ones, but honestly, I worried we’d give out before we got here.”

  “What happened in Bandera? How did you escape?” Tate asked.

  Emma sighed. “When it started the day before, we shot a dozen or so when they showed up at the house. Mary and I were so scared we just started shooting at the monsters and killed my SUV. John had lost his truck in town earlier that afternoon. He came through the woods and showed up about twenty minutes later. He was the one that told us about head shots. The infected followed the sound of Bill and Janice’s truck when they drove in. We held them off long enough for them to run inside. We were just so scared. It took a while to get good at the head shots. Then we started running low on ammunition.”

  “I can understand that, but what about the explosion?” Doyle asked.

  “Oh, that was Bill. He decided he could slow them down so we could get out the back door, over the fence, and up to the ridge. He opened the valve on a small propane tank from the garage and taped several wooden matches to the door resting against a striker. He figured he had a couple minutes before they could push the door open with all the furniture stacked up against it.” Janice chuckled. “He barely got out the back door. The explosion threw him all the way to the fence. Wish you could have seen his face. His eyes were big as saucers by the time he scampered up the ridge.” Tate chuckled, and Janice continued, “We knew we were in a terrible situation and still in danger, but we stood on that ridge just laughing like fools. Even Bill was laughing.”

  “I’m glad he’s going with me. He sounds like a man who can think on his feet.” Tate commented.

  The men wondered into the kitchen to grab cups of coffee while Phil rolled up to his place at the end of the table. He looked around the large table at the gathering of men and women. Emma set a cup of coffee in front of him.

  “Everyone knows their job, right?” Phil complained. “I just wish I were going with you.”

  Bill held up his hand. “We’ve had this discussion. You need to see that the yard is ready for the trailers. The folks left here will need to work together, and you’re the only one that knows what should be done.”

  Emma sat biscuits and homemade apple butter on the table, then passed around bowls of grits. She looked pointedly at Phil. “Since Mary is here, you start therapy today. You’ve got to get back on your feet. The doctor said the surgery went fine. You have to build up your strength before you are walking again.”

  Everyone settled down to eat with most of the conversation revolving around the coming supply run. After a final cup of coffee, one by one the group prepared to leave. Emma stood at the door and handed each person leaving a bag. “It’s only a sandwich and an apple and two bottles of water. Bring the bottles with the lids back, please. We need to recycle.”

  Tate accepted her bag and headed to the Bitch with Bill close on her heels. He carried his own bag and a rifle while he wore a handgun in a holster at his waist.

  Tate got in the cab of her rig, settled on the leather seat, and pumped the choke before pushing the starter. The motor roared to life.

  “Ready for this?” Tate answered.

  Bill riding shotgun gave her a quick nod and wide grin. “Sure thing.”

  The gate opened, and three pickups rolled through the opening with Doyle’s rig close behind. Tate shifted into first and followed. She glanced in the side mirror and saw the gate sliding back in place just as she made the first curve.

  “So, you think we can do all this?” Bill asked.

  “I hope so. If the three men in the pickups can get the FEMA trailers without a problem and we can find semi-trailers at Walmart loaded with canned goods. With us all going to Boerne and not splitting up, we have a real good chance.”

  They drove past the cluster of vehicles they had passed when they turned off Highway 16 the day before. The smell of the scorched rubber as they passed still hung heavy in the air.

  “I’m afraid we need more people,” Tate commented to no one in particular.

  “The FEMA trailers are on the edge of town. Walmart is only a mile further down the road,” Bill added.

  “RVs would be a lot nicer. Why FEMA trailers? ”

  “They include air conditioning, heat, water heaters, LP gas hookups, and are fully furnished. Best of all they were designed to be towed by a pickup. Besides, no one should be around there. The RV lot is in the middle of town. There’s a lot more chance of infected being around,” Bill chuckled. “That asshole with the teenage boys, Stewart, thought he ought to get the pick of the RV lot. He was all excited about it until Phil told him, he would have to get it himself if he wanted one.”

  “At some point, we’re going to have to make a run to a home improvement store for plumbing supplies,” Tate commented. “If the plan is to hook all the units up to plumbing and water, that is.”

  “We’re gonna need a lot of supplies to make this work. Most of it is gonna be dangerous to get, but there’s no way around it,” Bill answered.

  “How many acres does Phil have fenced?”

  Bill screwed up his face, pondering the question. “Best I can guess fifteen-sixteen acres. There’s deer fence around three sides. He used it since it was taller and sturdier than barbed wire and Phil didn’t want the deer into his garden or damaging the fruit trees. It may work with the deer, but a heavy truck or a herd of those monsters could bring it down.”

  “You said three sides?” Tate asked.

  “There’s a five hundred foot drop at the back of the property. It’s why Phil bought the place. Defense. The only problem is when he got hurt. He had back surgery about a month ago, but it doesn’t seem to have solved the problem.”

  “Usually there’s physical thera
py involved after something like that. I heard Emma mention therapy.” Tate answered.

  “He was supposed to be cleared for the physical therapy, but Emma got caught waiting for us when the world went to shit.” He paused for a minute then added. “I haven’t really thanked you for saving Ben. He wouldn’t have lasted much longer up there.”

  Tate laughed. “I didn’t do much. I drove up, he jumped into the seat. We picked up Doyle and drove up the hill.”

  “You took a big chance trying to come after us.”

  “We ended up making a bigger mess. We blew shit up, and now you have Roger and Stewart on Phil’s doorstep. I’m not sure Phil’s real excited about that either.”

  Bill shrugged then pointed where the lead truck turned off the highway into a lot with hundreds of white trailers. Rows after row of temporary housing were lined up across several areas of the property. The man in the lead vehicle ran up to the gate with bolt cutters in hand. A minute later, the three pickups pulled into the parking lot.

  Doyle and Tate pulled to the side of the road and waited outside the gate both watching for any hint of trouble. John, Roger, and the young father ran to the first row of trailers. They did a quick inspection of three units including tires and opening the doors to look inside. Satisfied with the results, one by one, they each backed up a truck to a trailer and connected the hitch. Within fifteen minutes, they headed out the gate. Once through the gate, Roger jumped out of the last truck and reconnected the chain with the shank of the padlock.

  John pulled alongside the rigs. “You’re up. Sure you don’t want us to wait?”

  “We’re good,” Doyle answered.

  He shifted into first, and his truck began to roll forward. Tate waved at John and followed Doyle. She glanced in the side mirror to see the caravan of white trailers disappear around a corner on their way back to Phil’s place.

  The more Tate thought about it, the more concerned she was with Phil’s complex. There were too many people to feed, and not enough folks to care for them. Add that to the fact, they would be trapped on the bluff, and if attacked, there would not be enough qualified people to fight.

  Trying to shake off the sense of foreboding, she glanced at Bill. “What do you think of all this? I slept through the first twenty-four hours. By the time I figured out something was wrong, the world was a cluster-fuck. I feel a step behind of everyone else.”

  “What do you mean?” Bill asked.

  “Is there any chance this can be stopped or is the country going to be overrun by the dead?”

  “Stopped? Not here or any state that was attacked, I don’t think so,” Bill answered.

  “What about the rest of the country?” Tate asked.

  “The country is in deep shit. The defenses around the state won’t be able to secure the borders. It only takes one infected, and an entire city will fall. The infected WILL get through or work their way around anything people set up. Maybe isolated settlements or communities will be able to wall themselves off, but it will sweep the states. The key is going to be to hold out.”

  “For how long?”

  “Logic tells me the bodies will eventually rot, but how long it takes is anyone’s guess. We can see it in some of the bodies even now, maggots and decay. But if that’s the case, all we have to do is hunker down and survive. The problem is; there is always fertile ground for more infected. People die. Now we know, anyone that dies, will get up and try to eat us.”

  “We’re fucked,” Tate sighed.

  “Yep. All we can do is hold out, maybe the CDC can come up with a vaccine,” Bill commented. “Phil has a pretty good set up. You can stay with us.”

  “I have a family of my own I want to get to. When this job is over, I’m still considering heading out west to my cousin’s place.”

  The CB crackled to life. “Tate, got your ears on?”

  Tate grabbed the mic. “10-4. Go ahead.”

  “We’re coming up on Walmart. There’s a few infected stumbling around out front, but overall it looks pretty quiet. Stewart says it wasn’t a twenty-four-hour store. There’s a chance it was closed before the town got overrun. Follow us around back, but not too close,” Doyle advised.

  “Roger,” Tate dropped the mic.

  She watched Doyle turn off the highway and follow the drive around the side of the store. Tate turned the wheel and guided the Bitch around the corner and saw Doyle back under the hitch of a white trailer parked at the back door. A second truck with a trailer still attached sat to the back of the lot.

  Bill jumped from the cab around the back of the trailer. After a quick glance at the back end, he walked back toward the truck with a thumbs-up, “The security tag is still attached. Could be a real goal mine.”

  After backing her tractor to the front of the second trailer at the loading dock, Tate climbed from her rig. With Bill at her side, she jogged over to Doyle just as he walked back from the dock. She pointed with her thumb over her shoulder. “The trailer out by the fence is still loaded. Bill checked, and the seal is on the back door. We need to take that truck. It’s ready to go if we can find keys.”

  “Are we going to have to go inside?” Bill asked, with a frown of concern.

  “Not until we check out that rig,” Tate answered. “Both trailers parked at the doors are from the distribution warehouse. Probably contained non-perishables for the grocery shelves; looks like they came in together.”

  Doyle chuckled. “The driver of the rig by the fence could have left with one of the missing drivers that left these two trailers.”

  “If that’s the case, he might have left his keys in the rig,” Tate added, then looked at Bill. “You can drive it, right?” He nodded, and she continued, “Look for the keys. If we find them, you can get the rig started and be ready to roll.”

  Bill jogged off toward the truck. A moment later, he opened the door and climbed inside.

  Tate turned back to Doyle and asked, “Are they sealed?”

  Doyle shrugged. “No. They’re both empty.”

  “Then we go inside the warehouse,” Tate announced. “Hopefully pallets haven’t been split up, and we can load it back up.”

  Doyle slapped his hand on the cab door. “Hey Stewart, bring your crowbar and get out here, buddy. It’s time to earn a living.”

  Stewart climbed out of the truck with the look of a deer in headlights. “I don’t think I’m prepared for this,” he whined.

  Tate rolled her eyes at Doyle. He only shrugged and walked away.

  “Let’s get this done,” Doyle said.

  With machete in hand, Tate followed Doyle to the access door at the side of the dock. Stewart followed half a dozen paces behind. His head swiveled from right to left and back again. They climbed the stairs silently until Stewart missed the bottom step and nearly tumbled off the concrete.

  “Christ! Get a grip, guy,” Tate snarled.

  Doyle laughed. “Don’t be so hard on him. He’s not used to hunting two-legged game outside of a bar.”

  Tate snickered. “Neither am I, come to think of it.” She stepped back with a hint of a grin. “Big strong he-man, by all means, you go first.”

  Doyle flashed a grin over his shoulder. “Eat shit, little girl.”

  “You first, old man,” Tate answered. “Smells like plenty around here.”

  Doyle raised a hand to the door knob. He rotated his wrist, but the knob didn’t move. “I guess we do it the hard way.” He held out his hand to Stewart. “Crowbar, buddy.”

  Stewart looked around, hesitant to pass the weapon to Doyle. “I won’t have anything to protect myself!”

  Doyle scowled as he passed the machete he was holding toward Stewart. “Don’t hurt yourself and don’t lose it. I want it back.”

  Stewart accepted the blade and passed the crowbar to Doyle.

  Doyle shoved the end of the bar into the crack between the jam and the door. He leaned into the bar, and they heard the screech of metal against metal. He made a quick pivot, the latch popped fre
e, and the door opened a few inches. The stench of death wafted out from the loading dock.

  The three stood still, listening. Tate could hear Stewart’s breathing as he shifted from foot to foot. Tate waited while Doyle tried to determine if he could hear sounds from inside. She tried to control her irritation at Stewart’s distressed breathing down her neck.

  Doyle opened the door a little wider and sniffed.

  “There’s dead in here,” he whispered. “Lights on.” He whispered over his shoulder. “Tate, you move to the right when we get inside. Stewart kicked that brick against the door to hold it open then follow us in and move the left. Both of you watch your backs.”

  “Got it,” Tate answered.

  Stewart mumbled, “I guess.”

  Doyle opened the door and fanned his light from left to right and back again. He stepped into the gloom with Tate close on his heels.

  She scanned the shadows with the beam of her flashlight and saw an infected at the far end of the warehouse. She heard Stewart kick the brick under the door, but his silhouette continued to block the light from the doorway.

  Tate glanced over her shoulder and whispered. “Get out of the doorway!”

  She turned back to the loading dock and realized both trailers had been emptied. Dozens of pallets sat around the warehouse in an arrangement that only the stockers would understand.

  Stewart stepped forward, his flashlight jerked from side to side in a nervous strobe attempting to illuminate the dark.

  “Calm down Stew,” Doyle advised. “I’m going to the overhead door and try to get it open. Cover me.”

  “I got you covered,” Tate said, as she moved further into the gloom.

  Doyle side stepped to the overhead door and began struggling with the chain.

  Still watching the shadows moving around the stacks of pallets, Tate glanced over her shoulder at the bottom of the door and saw a padlock securing the chain as Doyle stuck the tire iron in the hasp and began to pry.